The River
In my dream I approach it through a nightmarish gate
Upon which are words that tell of the fate
Of all who pass through, but in the morn when I wake,
I can’t remember, can’t remember those words when I wake.
In the dream I continue on down a steep hill.
The sky it is boiling; the air silent and still.
And I see far below me a vast misty plain,
And the River lies on it like a great crimson stain.
I enter the mist and become aware it consists
Of the ghostly shadows of women and men,
And I know in the dream that these souls in distress
Are condemned to remain here till Time itself ends.
I pass through this mist and come to the bank.
The River is turbid and murky and rank.
I see under its surface more of these souls
Drowned (but not drowned) in their attempts to escape.
I see the dread boatman approaching this shore,
Crossing the water, pulling his oar.
His boat stops before me, his dead eyes stare;
He puts out his hand and waits for the fare,
The fare to cross over and escape from this plain
Else on this bank I'll forever remain.
I search in my pockets but no coin do I find.
The boatman moves off and I stay behind.
Copyright © Jerome Malenfant | Year Posted 2016
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